said, “I have rusted on amid books and study; have been little engaged in the active, and not much in the pleasurable, scenes of life; and am more accustomed to a select society than to general companies.”  If Hume made a ridiculous figure in these circles, the error did not lie on the side of that cheerful and profound philosopher.—­This subject leads our inquiries to the nature of the conversations of men of genius.

CHAPTER IX.

Conversations of men of genius.—­Their deficient agreeableness may result from qualities which conduce to their greatness.—­Slow-minded men not the dullest.—­The conversationists not the ablest writers.—­Their true excellence in conversation consists of associations with their pursuits.

In conversation the sublime DANTE was taciturn or satirical; BUTLER sullen or caustic; GRAY and ALFIERI seldom talked or smiled; DESCARTES, whose habits had formed him for solitude and meditation, was silent; ROUSSEAU was remarkably trite in conversation, not an idea, not a word of fancy or eloquence warmed him; ADDISON and MOLIERE in society were only observers; and DRYDEN has very honestly told us, “My conversation is slow and dull, my humour saturnine and reserved; in short, I am none of those who endeavour to break jests in company, or make repartees.”  POPE had lived among “the great,” not only in rank but in intellect, the most delightful conversationists; but the poet felt that he could not contribute to these seductive pleasures, and at last confessed that he could amuse and instruct himself much more by another means:  “As much company as I have kept, and as much as I love it, I love reading better, and would rather be employed in reading, than in the most agreeable conversation.”  Pope’s conversation, as preserved by Spence, was sensible; and it would seem that he had never said but one witty thing in his whole life, for only one has been recorded.  It was ingeniously said of VAUCANSON, that he was as much an automaton as any which he made.  HOGARTH and SWIFT, who looked on the circles of society with eyes of inspiration, were absent in company; but their grossness and asperity did not prevent the one from being the greatest of comic painters, nor the other as much a creator of manners in his way.  Genius, even in society, is pursuing its own operations, and it would cease to be itself were it always to act like others.

Men of genius who are habitually eloquent, who have practised conversation as an art, for some, even sacrifice their higher pursuits to this perishable art of acting, have indeed excelled, and in the most opposite manner.  HORNE TOOKE finely discriminates the wit in conversation of SHERIDAN and CURRAN, after having passed an evening in their company.  “Sheridan’s wit was like steel highly polished and sharpened for display and use; Curran’s was a mine of virgin gold, incessantly crumbling away from its own richness.”